


I Know I'd Go Back To You

by Lollilox



Series: Do Your Research [5]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Arguing, F/F, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, Slow Dancing, have some feels, i guess this is a slow burn now, moira in a run down pub is my new aesthetic, there's a bit of pharmercy angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 10:30:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16785163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lollilox/pseuds/Lollilox
Summary: In the wake of Christmas eve's tryst with Fareeha, Angela wakes on Christmas morning to find her gone, and seeks solace by way of confrontation, whiskey, and a familiar stranger.





	I Know I'd Go Back To You

**Author's Note:**

> Henlo friends, I'm back with another sappy Christmas inspired instalment. Moicy this time, mostly. There's a bit of Pharmercy to begin with.  
> Also halfway inspired by a Selena Gomez song, lol.  
> Please enjoy!

The smell of Fareeha lingered in the apartment long after she had left.

Soon after both Angela and Fareeha had found themselves in a tangle of limbs under the Egyptian cotton sheets, the veritably exhausted doctor had taken solace in the closeness of Fareeha's warmth, nestling herself up against the other woman's breastbone, deeply inhaling that intoxicating scent like her life depended on it. In retrospect, Angela would have wondered if, indeed, it had.  
Before morning had come to pass, Fareeha had slipped out from under Angela's sleeping form, left a kiss on the blonde's brow, and set a small note on the nightstand, sealed with a promise that their paths would cross again. Just like a ghost, she was gone, with nothing but the note and the heady scent of cedar, almonds, sweat, and sandalwood.

Hours later, Angela woke slowly, stretching out her limbs like a cat, palms blindly exploring the empty space in the bed, expecting to find a warm body to cuddle up against.  
Instead, Angela's hands slid over the cold, extravagant sheets, and her sleep-ridden eyes fluttered open to the realization that, again, Fareeha was gone.

Her heart sank as her gaze located the note, just before she rolled over, took a pillow into her clutches, and allowed herself another pitiful hour of sleep.

When Angela had found herself vertical again, she'd committed to a shower, a piece of toast slathered in butter and marmalade, and clothing consisting of a black turtle-neck and a pair of high-waisted, plaid slacks.  
She'd taken the note to the counter in the kitchen as the coffee was percolating, and set it against a bunch of bananas to stare at it until caffeine could kick start her heart into feeling something other than misery and despair.

At first, there was every chance that the note was a simple 'be back later, going to get breakfast'. After two hours of sleep and grooming, Angela hadn't been prepared to bet on it, seeing as Fareeha hadn't been back with the stinkingly attractive smile of hers, toting two cups of lukewarm coffee and stale bagels.  
For longer than Angela was proud to admit, she stared at Fareeha's handwriting, following the lines of her own name that graced the front of the folded note. She'd never taken care to notice how formal Fareeha's handwriting seemed, in all capital letters, neatly stacked one beside the other, ever so slightly italicized by the tilt of how she held a pen.

_ANGELA_

The name stared back at the doctor herself, like it was taunting her.

All at once, Angela scoffed, swiped the note up from the banana bunch, and flipped the front up to read the contents.

_CALLED TO WORK. BACK LATER. LOVE YOU, ANGEL._

_FAREEHA_

_X_

The word 'angel' had felt like a shot to the heart.  
The cherry on top of a sundae of lies, of heartbreak after heartbreak, of always being second best to something that Angela couldn't understand.

Christmas, and Angela found herself truly alone, in a cold and desolate apartment, with that stupid lingering smell, reminding her of every mistake she'd ever made.

How she'd made it to evening without combusting, Angela wasn't certain, however presumed there was a fair amount of spite involved, to see if Fareeha would indeed come back and try to pick back up where they'd left off.

Several hours later, somewhere around ten o'clock, the front door of the apartment clicked open, the scent of Fareeha renewing itself with a blast of chilly air.  
The woman shook the snow from her shoes, and walked into the living room, previously forgotten golden package of a gift in her hands. "Angela? A neighbor let me up. Sorry I-"  
At the movement, the dim light of the reading lamp above the couch flickered on, shining an ominous spotlight upon the blonde doctor, sitting there with her arms crossed and gaze tilted down. "Put it away, Fareeha." Angela spoke the words hollowly, gripping onto the sleeves of her turtle-neck, pursing her lips to keep from choking up.  
"What's the matter?" Fareeha asked, stupidly, setting the gift down on the couch beside Angela, hesitating to sit, and instead lingering a couple paces from the blonde.  
Angela produced the wadded up note from her pocket, and threw it at Fareeha's feet.  
"Angela..." Fareeha coaxed, gently. "I had to work. You know what it's like."  
"Yes, Fareeha, I know what it's like." Angela spat the words back to the woman standing before her, focusing all her energy into saying what needed to be said before she burst into tears. "I know what this is like every time it happens. And why wouldn't I know? It's inevitable."  
Fareeha's facial expression turned cold as she took half a step back. "You're one to talk about putting work first."  
Fareeha seemed to realize how hurtful her words had sounded just as Angela sighed, defeated, brushed off her thighs and stood up, already choking back a sniffle. Angela bit her lip until she tasted blood, refusing to let it quiver in the face of someone who had hurt her so deeply over and over again and never seemed to realize how much had been forgiven until the breaking point was upon her. "Get out, and don't come back this time."  
The air left Fareeha's lungs in a gasp. "Don't do this, Angela." She seemed to be pleading, her life's work bleeding into her words by way of the way she spoke, almost as if she were negotiating with a person holding hostages. "I'm here, aren't I?"  
"Get out," Angela repeated, turning her back to Fareeha as the first of many tears leaked from her eyes and ran down her cheeks.  
"Angela! What do you want me to do? I can't drop my whole life to please you!" Fareeha raked her hand through her silken tresses, starting to pace around, venting her frustration, though refusing to budge toward the door.  
"I realize that," Angela spoke, looking over her shoulder with glossy eyes and fine blonde brows pulled up in agony and sorrow, "which is why you need to leave."  
"I love you, Angel, can't you see that?!" Fareeha demanded, reaching out to grab Angela's arm, hesitating at the last moment to put her hands on her hips and continue pacing away from the doctor. "Jesus, what do I have to do to make you see how much I need you?!"  
"Get out."  
Frustrated, Fareeha huffed a breath and shook her head. "You're not thinking straight."  
"Get. Out."  
"Angela, I want to be with you. Shouldn't that be enough?"  
A long beat of silence passed between the two, and Angela turned completely to face Fareeha. Her eyes were already red-rimmed and bloodshot, trails of silent, shameful tears trickling all the way down her cheeks to her neck where they disappeared in the swathe of fabric creeping up Angela's neck.  
"No, it's not. It's not enough. It never is." Angela shook her head sullenly. "I go back to you, and you break my heart the same way every time. I don't learn from my mistakes with you, because you drown out every instinct in my mind and get me addicted to you before I can realize that you're bad for me. And by the time I come to my senses, you're already gone and I wonder how long it's taken me this time, to finally be able to see that you are never there when I need you."  
Neither woman spoke for a lengthy second, only to end with Angela allowing a shaky sigh to escape her lips. "So, do what you want, Fareeha." She swallowed thickly. "Just do it far away from me."  
Angela moved then, brushing past Fareeha to grab her coat and purse from the landing, and let herself out of the apartment with the door slam echoing in her mind long after she was gone.

She'd gone to the only place that had been open, and let herself into the run down little pub after about an hour of wandering around in the snow and silent streets.

What sounded like an old gramophone skipped and crackled, playing ancient Christmas songs deep in the back of the pub, hauntingly welcoming with its yellowish light glowing from the fireplace opposite the bar.  
Angela followed the sound without thinking, frozen tears stuck to her cheeks and eyelashes as the door jingled closed behind her, drawing a few sets of eyes to her. The aged barkeep didn't do much other than look at her before going back to polishing glasses, while the rest of the patrons of the musty pub seemed to get back to their conversations.

Moira, something bizarrely dressed in a slender-fitting grey suit, sat at the bar, bottle of whiskey in one hand, and a glass in the other. She looked genuinely baffled to see the doctor, if only for a moment, before taking in the state of Angela.  
"Doctor Ziegler," she acknowledged Angela's presence, though her gaze did not linger on Angela's tears, nor the very pink (and alarming) tinge of the tips of her ears and nose. "I would have thought you had a family to be with this season."  
The redheaded doctor poured a glass, and slid it a few inches toward Angela, as an open invitation.

Angela swallowed, heat finally seeping back into her skin the closer she stood to the seemingly lively scene, unsure of why she'd found herself there, in that predicament, facing the colleague that had done so well embarrassing her months ago.

"My parents are dead," Angela sputtered, unsure of whether the geneticist would buy the tears were on account of her long dead parents' memory.  
"I see," Moira acknowledged, pursing her lips. "My condolences."  
Angela eyed the glass of whiskey before taking a step toward it, feeling an awful papery, parched feeling at the back of her nose and throat. "I'm fine," Angela stipulated, standing up a little taller and salvaging every morsel of confidence she could to convince Moira that the tears weren't on account of her pitiful personal life.  
"Yes," Moira agreed, seriously. "But I find, either way, whiskey does the soul good."  
The geneticist gestured to the barkeep for another glass, and poured herself one, sipping it as she waited to see if Angela would sit down.

Angela stared at the amber liquid, took a breath, and sat beside Moira, taking the glass into her hands. "I don't want to talk about it," she spoke, watching Moira nod briefly, before the blonde gulped half the glass down, withdrawing immediately afterward, hissing at the foreign and smoky aftertaste that burned all the way down.  
"I'm afraid it's a sipping whiskey, but well done you." Moira denoted, removing a handkerchief from the inside of her sleeve to offer it to Angela.  
Coughing, Angela set the glass down on the bar, taking the handkerchief, holding it to her mouth as she hacked her way past the initial shock of the burning feeling clinging to the sides of her throat, right before downing the rest of the glass and motioning for another, starting the vicious cycle all over again.  
Moira's brow raised, though she poured the glass all the same. "Merry Christmas to you as well." She smirked, obliging the doctor until she'd stopped the coughing fit and settled down to finally sipping the alcohol.

Angela shrugged her way out of her coat, plopped her purse on the bar, and took the glass to her lips, taking a ladylike sip, already feeling nice and warm inside. "I still don't want to talk about it."  
Moira nodded, knowingly, and set her glass down on the bar resolutely. "Perhaps a dance instead?"  
"A what?" Angela stared at the redhead, flushing a shade of pink, courtesy of both the alcohol and the suave geneticist. "I-"  
"A dance." Moira mentioned plainly, extending a hand and sliding her long legs from the bar stool to offer herself to the blonde doctor as a dancing partner.  
Angela looked toward the old record player, a soft and beautiful Christmas melody drifting from the back of the cosy pub.

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas,_  
_Let your heart be light,  
_ _From now on, our troubles will be out of sight..._

Moira's hand remained outstretched as she smiled at Angela, who set her glass down and eased herself off the stool.  
There was a moment of hesitation before Angela's hand slid into Moira's, and the redhead moved in turn, pulling Angela closer, wrapping her other arm behind the doctor's back, smiling warmly.

Angela said nothing, but looked away, embarrassed, setting her other hand on Moira's upper arm, unsure of whether it was the whiskey, or the other tall Irish drink that was making her feel a familiar heat in her heart as the two swayed in the glow of the fireplace.


End file.
